It Tasted Like Fish
by THEdragon-of-rainbows
Summary: A Don't Hug Me I'm Scared fanfiction. A couple of mornings after that June nineteenth, and it still lingered. (No pairings. Also note that I refer to the puppets as Red, Crowe and Donnie.)


It tasted like fish. Everything tasted like fish. The bowlful of sludgy porridge on the kitchen table was no exception. Ever since _that incident_ just a few days earlier, he could partially taste what seemed like raw dead fish in everything he tried to consume. It may have simply been his senses deceiving him, for he had failed to completely rid his long, red hair of the unpleasant scent no matter how thoroughly he washed it. Although the odour was faint enough to go unnoticed by anyone else around, as far as he could tell, having hair that draped over his mouth and nose made it problematic and difficult to ignore.

Red sighed softly before pushing another spoonful of porridge through his long mane of hair and into his concealed mouth. The mouthful tasted just as off and unappetizing as the previous. He had woken up later than the others, so they had eaten breakfast without him as evident by the dirty dishes abandoned in the sink. It was of little concern to him as he wouldn't have enjoyed his breakfast either way. Red stood up from his wooden chair and carried the unfinished bowl of porridge to the kitchen sink, washing the rest of it down the sink in defeat and taking the opportunity to check out the window for his friends. His two friends were quite younger than him, so he sometimes felt a bit of responsibility to make sure they didn't get up to too much trouble. Crowe had enough common sense for the both of them, though, so there was rarely much to worry about as long as… _The thing_… didn't occur again.

Sure enough, there they were, out on the grass in clear view from the window. Crowe's dark green feathers rustled in the wind as he paced around with a content gaze to the sky, a long thin thread trailing from the direction of his gaze and down into feathery hands, rather than wings of a normal bird. Meanwhile Donnie, the younger of the two, playfully chased a shadow on the grass, occasionally stopping and pointing up at the sky and speaking words that Red could not hear from the kitchen. They were peacefully flying their kite, taking advantage of the sudden windy weather, having seemingly gotten over what had happened a few days ago. Still, tension lingered in the air, just as it had the same time last year.

Moving on and trudging to the bathroom to wash his face, Red tried to piece together what occurred that fateful day. They were just about to watch their show, when _a clock_ of all things began to sing to them out of the blue. Red had no desire to go along for the ride, but it seemed there was no getting out of whatever bizarre powers that possessed clock wielded. Something somewhere had gone horribly wrong, perhaps they had said something they shouldn't have, but the clock didn't take it well. Before he knew it, strands of hair were loosening, fleshy chunks of scalp with them, as his fur greyed and fell out leaving behind sickly patches of pale, decaying flesh. Perhaps Red hadn't been as horrified by the 'rotting alive' experience as his friends, who had suffered similar punishment if not worse, but it was incredibly unenjoyable nonetheless. Goodness knows how they all managed to get out of it unscathed in the end, but by the time they did they had already missed their show. Stranger still, it had occurred on a day none other than the 19th of June, precisely one year after that incident with the singing notebook.

Red glanced at his weary reflection in the bathroom mirror as he twisted the tap on, cold water pouring from the faucet, before thoroughly rinsing the hairy mess that was his face in the sink. Somehow during that earlier incident, fish had ended up all around the house. Not the pleasant kind that one would own in little tanks and bowls, or the tasty well-cooked kind served with a side of chips or salad, but dead, stinking fish corpses un-fresh from the sea. There was no clue given as to why they were there or what the heck they had in common with the concept of time, but that clock had made sure to put plenty of them in Red's room. Perhaps he was upset by Red's initial lack of enthusiasm to journey with him.

Whatever the reason, Red tried not to dwell on it too much, for it was only the past now. He hoped the foul smell that had wafted into his hair and lingered there would fade over time. Washing it repeatedly had not helped a whole lot, and he refused to consider cutting his hair off an option. Red could scarcely remember what his own face looked like under that extensive hair, and he wasn't eager to be reminded, so for now he would just accept and tolerate the annoying smell and the off-putting taste that came with it. He wondered if Crowe had it even worse, having taken a bath on that day only to discover those dead fish in the tub with him. Neither he nor Donnie had mentioned anything of the sort afterwards, they probably desired not to, so Red wasn't going to bring it up.

Red tried not to glance at the clock on the wall when he entered the living room. He knew it was no longer 'alive', for now, but he couldn't shake the feeling that if he looked up at it, it would be looking back at him. He already knew the time anyway. Taking seat in his usual chair, his vibrant red hair contrasting its duller green upholstery, Red picked up the television remote from the coffee table where he had last left it. A strange sort of emptiness lingered within him, as if he were already counting down hours until the end of the day, and it made him feel uneasy upon noticing it. With a press of a button the dead screen of the small box flickered to life, displaying psychedelic swirls of digital rubbish and projecting through its speakers the distorted sound of a sad old man droning words so incomprehensible, yet so relatable. It was not the show Red wanted to watch, but it was nearing it.

With enough time to spare, Red pulled himself up off his favourite green chair and lumbered out through the front door. The least he could do was greet his friends with a 'good morning'. The wind that he had thought to be present before was now gone, the air was silent and still. However, it felt chilled, despite the sun's presence in a sky blanketed only by a very thin sheet of cloud, giving the sky a pale grey appearance. All around was serene, yet somehow felt a little sombre.

There they were in the distance, Donnie and Crowe, with their now fallen kite in front of them. They didn't seem to hear Red open and close the front door, as they hadn't paid him any attention. Rather than calling out to them, he began to make his way over to them to see what was amiss. The expanse of grassy field around the home seemed vaster than he recalled, and the walk over to his friends felt lengthier than the distance between them appeared. It was as if today was playing tricks on Red's mind, it was the 22nd of June, but it felt like a 19th.

Upon being approached, Donnie and Crow looked up silently at Red, who towered over them.

"Good morning." Red greeted in his typical dull, monotone voice. He could still faintly smell the rotting fish.

"Hello." Crowe responded softly in reply. Donnie just gave an uneasy wave hello before looking back at the kite, scratching at his poorly-cut blue hair

The kite was in a rather bad condition. Not only had its once vibrant and youthful colours faded to dull, and small tears blemished its smooth material, but upon impacting the earth for the final time its light frame had shattered, leaving it useless.

"That's a shame." Red remarked quietly, noticing the ruined kite. He could still smell that odour. "That was a good kite."

Crowe shrugged as he gazed back at the kite. The two were now staring at the kite again. Their expressions read neither mournful nor displeased, but rather blank, as if they were lost in thought on something entirely unrelated.

The air was uncomfortably still.

He could still smell the rotting fish lingering in the stale air.

Whether they could smell it or not, they were surely thinking about it.

The air was growing tenser.

He could still smell the rotting, it was too familiar.

They felt the uneasiness too, he could see it.

The atmosphere was sombre and foreboding.

The rotting… it was not fish, but simply rotting.

They hadn't gotten over it yet, they hadn't.

Red snapped out of his trance, noticing his rising apprehension. He had to keep calm and collected, if not for himself then for _them_. His young friends were now gazing back up at him again. Despite his indifferent, unperturbed image, Red did sometimes feel troubled as any regular man would; he just found it easier to hide them under his flat vocals and long, obscuring hair.

"A re-run of our show is on in fifteen minutes." Red finally spoke, gesturing his thumb back towards the house behind him. "You can come back inside and watch it with me if you want."

Donnie and Crowe glanced at each other then back at Red, and nodded. A sympathetic look briefly fell over Red's eyes before he turned back to the house and began a sluggish walk back. Donnie spent a moment or two re-adjusting his blue overalls, while Crowe quickly wound up the remaining string and picked the mangled mess that was their kite up off the ground. The two swiftly caught up to their older friend, gently grasping his soft hands in a nervous, childlike manner and walking with him back to their house. The way they would pass that morning was the way Red was most accustomed to, but somehow this time he couldn't help but feel an unusual pang of remorse he had not anticipated. With the kite battered, they would be catching up on lost television.

_"Just a regular morning, I suppose…"_ Red thought to himself.


End file.
